#and ive had too many disruptions to my routine this month

[flockofdoves]

i feel really really weird this week. trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. like its certainly not the first time i’ve felt like this in my life but ive just not had my emotions so . not numbed? in so long or felt like crying totally unprompted or felt vaguely angry at random shit in a certain sort of way (which for something new then makes me feel super guilty because i used to be bad with how i went about anger and i guess i never really fully learned how to practice being normal about it i just started constantly suppressing it along with every other emotion so seeing myself angry about inconsequential shit even if im not acting on it makes me feel awful like people are potentially seeing my reaction to them when its not a justified thing even if i dont think i’m doing anything). like sure those were super normal in past parts of my life. maybe even in the context of my job which i guess i only quit just like 7 months ago now even if i otherwise felt numb through the year before that too. and not something surprising to emerge again bc it has in the past year too but just maybe not so much at once but on top of that just feel a bit paranoid about stuff like people reading my mind or bugs crawling on me (or imagining sensations like that or seeing that or w/e)

i guess in typing all this out when i think about it the one time i felt like this this past half year that i can think of (or at least pretty similar and notable in the way i felt weird minus the anger. actually i didnt feel angry til the past few days so i think thats just at like. being around someone whos made vaguely bigoted comments that i’m affected by but then feeling guilty for reading the worst into unrelated shit bc of that making me feel unsafe) is when my brothers girlfriend visited. and now this past couple weeks she visited and then my uncle visited and then my moms friend visited and in general just theres more invitations to see other people even not staying w us bc everyones vaccinated.

so i guess the biggest factor throughout all of that is like. having to get used to interacting with people that i havent interacted with much in this past over 2 years of being isolated while also simultaneously having my daily routines disrupted by that a bit?? which feels absolutely insane to me that that would have That disproportional of an effect and be something i really did not even know how to attribute at all until typing this out right now. like i really appreciate and have fun with a lot of those people its not bc i dislike them or literally anything like that i think this is just a bit of a deranged unexpected side effect of whatever fucking stage of isolation i’m at where instead of just feeling really stilted in conversation or feeling like i dont know how to normally talk to people or accidentally crying while talking to people or oversharing and being awkward like i have at various times throughout my 2 years and 4 months of isolation when i had brief periods of interacting with people i cared about and/or people around my age again, while sure a lot of that is still somewhat happening (but not the crying in conversation, that was once when i got to see friends from college once literally right before i really realized the pandemic was starting and i couldnt keep visiting after not seeing them for a year before then. i just havent seen any of those friends since)  i think its like. not knowing at all how to act normally around people but also not being as used to the people i am newly interacting with while my routines interrupted so whether i want to make a good impression around them in spite of that or am trying to be normal about feeling upset about shit people i dont know well but cant just not be around say or whatever  ig it just like. flares up my anxieties about what can tell from what i say or how theey take me and all that leads to intrusive thoughts and paranoia about not just giving off the wrong conversational things but literally people reading my mind and judging me for intrusive thoughts recursive cycle etc and all that just makes me feel exhausted and unsafe and useless and whatever etc and maybe subconsciously is bringing up a lot of reocurring emotional shit i’ve dwelled on but not cried about much at all this past half year idk. plus i’m just stressed about how much i really want to get done before starting to move and go back to school.

makes sense in explaining most of it in typing it out right now but nonetheless dont like that. isolation has had a lot of awful effects on me (literally i know i’m talking to so many other people in the world now with that its nothing special lol. ‘i was doing this for a year prepandemic’ is a stupid thing to emphasize 1 year is horrible enough and it just blends together) and i’ve long been terrified thinking about how it could be affecting me in more unforeseen and/or longterm ways but i think i was thinking i had a general sense of how my trouble with interacting with people again would manifest and i really dont like seeing that like. i literally did not fucking know how to connect my emotions and other shit recently to that til right now. better than not connecting it at all of course but i dont like it feeling so unconnected. in general have been very disconnected from emotions even outside of social interaction type stuff so of course thats something to work on too but idk just scary to realize maybe i dont even know the general shape of how my trouble “reintegrating into society” is gonna look like lol. and while i’m hoping it will feel better (but honestly probably a lot more intense emotions even if positive) with realizing this know i really even more cannot even begin to imagine how seeing people ive been close to in the past again will end up going when i get to that

[miss-eucatastrophe]

Chapter 18: Shattered

Pairing: Bucky x PlusSize!OFC/Serum!OFC (Can also be read as a Bucky X Reader fic as discriptions beyond plus size are minimal after first two-three chapters. Your name is Cassandra. You’re welcome you beautiful bitch).

Summary:Trying to integrate into “normal” life, Bucky slowly falls into a routine. Wake up, run, gaze at the woman who works in the toy store as he passes by, eat, mission, sleep, repeat. But when he goes toe to toe with a thief who threaten’s to trash his routine by becoming an obsession, will he be able to put his bizarre life back in order, or will this woman turn his 21st century world on it’s head?Yep, the Bucky/Serum!Reader story you didn’t know you wanted.

Rated: Explicit

Chapter 18

“I followed as long as I could, but the forest got too dense to see from the jet.” Natasha said apologetically when Bucky stepped off the Quinjet and back into the compound. He didn’t say anything; his jaw was tense, and every muscle was tight. The team was pretty sure that if anyone so much as looked at him funny, they were going to lose a limb.

That didn’t bother Steve. “It took me two years, Buck.” He reminded his friend.

It had taken Steve years to find Bucky, but Bucky didn’t want to wait years to find his doll. He wanted her now. Maybe he was just less patient than Steve.

“Bucky,” Natasha said cautiously, more confident to speak to him now that Steve was near.

The soldier didn’t turn to face her as he started to remove his many weapons from his person and place them on the designated artillery wall, but he did cock his head enough to show that he was listening.

“Cassandra was really badly hurt.” The movement in Bucky’s jaw was a clear indication that he was grinding his teeth.

“Thanks, Agent Obvious.” Tony chimed in, not one to let tension hang in the air. Though his sarcasm didn’t do much to ease it.

Peter gripped the top of his mask and yanked it off, letting the mixture of fabric and technology hang loosely in his fist. “Hey yeah! Maybe that’ll slow them down?” Bless Peter’s optimism.

And curse it at the same time.

Because Bucky was not receptive to it.

The male finished placing the weaponry on the wall and moved to remove the blue coat of his tactical gear, walking towards the exit. He didn’t want to deal with anyone at the moment.

“That wasn’t my point,” Natasha murmured, giving the web slinging teen a look. “My point is… He’s going to realize she can’t recover like you and Steve.”

Bucky had figured as much, but it did give him pause. Pause that Tony took advantage of in order to chime in. “He’ll probably start working on his own serum. If we monitor the black markets, we may be able to track his movement.”

Steve smiled weakly, having walked beside his friend after removing his own tactical gear and weapons. “It’s a good lead, pal.”

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the bright side. He was looking at everything that could go wrong once Vasiliev realized that his doll wasn’t the perfect super soldier. Experiments—painful ones, or worse—disposal of an imperfect asset. A damaged asset was not an asset.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He moved out the door with the intention of going to his room.

He needed to lay down in the dark for a while.

In the two months since they last saw the soldier girl, Bucky had become more irritable. He didn’t hang out with Steve or Sam, he didn’t go on runs through town where memories would surface, and he worked out alone. Many heavy bags had fallen victim to his misplaced rage.

Steve rarely dared to talk to him. Bucky was too much in his own head to see reason or positivity. It was best to leave him alone and let him stew privately unless Bucky came to him. Tony avoided Bucky more than usual, Natasha gave him knowing glances but kept her mouth shut, Sam wouldn’t risk poking fun at him as he was so tempted to do, Wanda didn’t root around in his head, and Peter was on the ceiling every time Bucky entered a room—not one to chance a negative interaction. Luckily Peter wasn’t in the compound so often, not with school in session. Tony tired to drill into his head that he was a kid first and a hero second, but he was as stubborn as Stark.

That’s how it went for weeks, with Bucky barely talking. It was as if he was stagnated—waiting for a lead. Anything that would bring his girl home.

Bucky sat in the living room, his feet propped up on the coffee table and his arms crossed. He stared blankly at the TV which was on at one point but had been turned off after the news was through. Bucky would always watch the news, hoping to come across her. But it was clear Vasiliev had taken her underground again.

The soldier’s sulking was interrupted by Tony’s AI, who’s voice echoed through the speakers. “Avengers, there seems to be an unidentified craft in our vicinity.” She said clearly, to which Stark responded, having been sat quietly in the kitchen. Life had to continue as normal after all.

“Are they asking for clearance?”  The AI responded quickly with, “No.”

Steve moved into the living room, a confused expression on his face as Tony spoke. “Can we get a visual?” He asked FRIDAY.

“Something is obstructing my cameras. I can’t get a clear view, Captain Rogers.” That was unusual enough for Bucky to stand up. The compound was in a restricted area, had it been a plane asking for an emergency landing, there wouldn’t be cause for alarm, even in a restricted air space. But a normal plane couldn’t disrupt Stark tech.

“Incoming projectile.” FRIDAY said rather flatly, as the three heroes looked at each other. “Projectile?” Steve murmured.

It was at that moment that both Steve and Bucky heard the whistling of an object at high speeds. As it got louder, Steve jumped forward and dove over the kitchen counter to tackle Tony to the ground while Bucky slid under the coffee table. Bucky and Steve could survive a missile, but without his suit Tony was just a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

A breakable one.

The sound of shattering glass rang in the three sets of ears, but the explosion never came. Instead something skidded across the floor, taking the shattered glass with it. Bucky and Steve poked their heads up, though Steve had one hand on Tony’s back to keep him down in the event of a delayed combustion.

But a person was standing there, suit torn and skin bleeding from the glass they’d crashed into. “Cassandra.” Steve murmured, rather dumbstruck.

Tony stood up, his brows raised. “You could’ve used the door.”

Tony’s boldness nearly earned him a bullet to the face, because in this form Cassandra was quick on the draw and lacked human hesitation.

Steve shoved Tony back to the ground in protection of Cassandra’s firing.

The woman was already swiftly leaving the room, like she knew exactly where she was going—almost robotic in her movements. Though Cassandra had never been to this compound before she was kidnapped by HYDRA.

“FRIDAY--!” Tony called.

“On it.” Came her swift reply. Tony pressed the side of his glasses so he could see from FRIDAY’S cameras.

However, each camera quickly turned black as Cassandra passed it. She shot out each one, walking with purpose and precision. She was looking for something.

“FRIDAY where is she headed?” Bucky called as he got up from the couch and retrieved a gun that he kept taped to the underside of the coffee table.

Paranoia died hard.

He had weaponry stashed everywhere through the compound. Especially after his doll was stolen from him.

“The lab. But Sargent Barnes I do not have a visual.” FRIDAY warned. Sometimes it was easy to forget that FRIDAY was an AI.

“I’ll take my chances.” He murmured, following where Cassandra had gone. If he was going to apprehend Cassandra, he was going to have to treat her like any other mission. He’d have to shut off to get his doll back.

So be it.

Cassandra made it to the lab without interference. Most of the other team members were scattered across the US on other missions. Steve had thought Bucky could benefit from a break, as could he and Tony.

So much for that.

Cassandra reached the lab door and kicked it in after several attempts, making deep dents in the metal surface and sending the lab techs scurrying for shelter. But Cassandra didn’t see them. It was like they weren’t there.

The woman scanned the room, her eyes falling on a metal containment unit with a frosted window. Tilting her head, she balled her fist and thrusted it through the glass, the shards falling around her booted feet. Her hand slipped from the broken window and in it was an IV bag of blue liquid. She smirked and stuffed it into a case that laid near one of the technician’s desk, slamming the lid shut. “Target acquired.” She murmured.

“Drop it, Doll.” She heard behind her as she gripped the handle of the metal case.

A smirk tugged at her lips and she looked over her shoulder, gun in one hand and case in the other. “You don’t give me orders, Winter Soldier.”

Bucky entered the room with his gun drawn, pointing at the object of his affection. “Drop. It.” He hissed, cocking the gun as Steve and Tony appeared in the doorway. Steve held his shield tightly and Tony had finally managed to equip his suit.

With a shield, a gun, and a blaster at the ready in front of her, the woman dropped the case and slid it to her left where it hit the below the tinted windows with a bang.

“Drop the weapon.” Steve murmured, creeping into the room in front of Tony.

The female soldier still smiled, taking a step to the side with her arms raised, but her gun still in hand.

“Cassandra…” Bucky gave a warning, aiming for her arm that held the gun, she slowly crouched, making her decent to the floor with the apparent intention of putting the gun down.

“Do you boys like catch?” She murmured.

Confusion flickered across the three males faces and she smiled.

In a blink, her left hand darted out and gripped the arm of a lab tech who’d been hiding under the desk beside her. She pulled the girl into her arms and pressed her gun to her temple. The girl’s bottom lip quivered, and she looked at the heroes with pleading eyes but otherwise did not dare to move.

Poor thing. This probably wasn’t in her job description.

Cassandra backed up to the wall behind her where another set of windows littered the surface. She thrusted her shoulder back, knocking the window out of its frame and sending the sheet of glass downward towards the unforgiving concrete.

“Let’s play.” Cassandra whispered, gripping the girl by the back of her lab coat before turning on her heels and tossing the woman out of the window. She screamed, and Tony instantly took off after the girl, in a race to catch her before she went skidding across the compound.

Ducking down as Tony flew over her, Cassandra removed a metal ball from her belt and threw it at the Captain who thought better than to simply deflect it.

While the grenade she’d thrown was in mid-flight, she lunged to the wall to her left where she’d tossed the case and scooped it up as she tucked herself into a ball and jumped through the glass.

As Steve threw the bomb down the hallway, he threw his shield on top of it and then threw himself on top of the shield, minimizing the damage of the blast. Though the pressure of the combustion set him flying into the hall ceiling.

The distractions worked well enough, but Bucky was already on Cassandra’s tail, jumping out the window behind her and landing on the concrete below with a thump. The girl looked over at the former Winter Soldier and smirked, as she straddled a parked motorcycle and took off down the path that led to the city. Whoever thought it was a good idea to leave their keys with their bike was going to learn a hard lesson.

Bucky didn’t waste time looking back to see if Steve had handled the bomb or if Tony had caught the girl, he had one focus—and that focus was getting away again.

Unwilling to lose her a third time, Bucky ran to his own motorcycle and gave chase, gun still in hand.

He caught up with her quickly and aimed at her back tire, trying to shoot it out from under her. The bullet embedded itself into the metal rim, alerting the woman to his pursuit. She looked over her shoulder and scowled, pointing her gun back at the soldier and firing. Bucky raised his metal arm to guard his face and the bullet left sparks where it hit the surface.

In frustration, she fired again, but the gun gave an empty click that made her growl. She tossed the useless weapon away and settled for outrunning the soldier, moving her motorcycle erratically to avoid any stray bullets from her pursuer.

Bucky couldn’t get a clear shot when she drove like that—and he wasn’t willing to chance a fatal shot.

Cassandra was not about to lead the Soldier to her rendezvous point. So, when the city came into view—she headed into it.

“Damn.” Bucky hissed. Of course, a brain washed super soldier would be more than willing to place innocent lives in danger. He knew he shouldn’t follow her—there would be too many civilians.

He knew he shouldn’t.

He was going to anyway.

Without his communicator to call for back up, he was on his own in his pursuit—and Cassandra wasn’t making it easy for him.

The woman weaved in and out of traffic, trying to lose the soldier in a sea of cars and confusion. It was when the woman had the moxie to drive the bike up on the sidewalk through a crowd of people who barely managed to avoid her, that Bucky knew just chasing her wouldn’t be enough. If she was getting ballsy, he would have to too.

As they started down a less populated road, Bucky’s eyes darted to a tow truck off to the side with its’ ramp lowered, as if it was about to load a car.

Bucky swerved, riving his engine and taking the ramp as a launching point. He road up the ramp and gave the engine another rive as he picked up speed, propelling himself into the air. While in the air, the man dismounted the bike and let it fall without him, timing his decent to land on the back of Cassandra’s motor cycle as she zoomed by.

Cassandra didn’t even have time to turn her head before Bucky had thrown her from the bike. The girl went flying through the air, stopped only by crashing into a gas tanker that had halted at a red light.

As Cassandra hit the tank the metal flexed under her, causing her to indent the surface before she fell to the ground, barely catching herself on her feet as the two motorcycles went rolling down the street and crashed into a series of parked cars.

In the distance, the sounds of panicked people and speeding cars could be heard—all people trying to abandon the super soldier battle. The man driving the gas tanker jumped out of the driver seat and made a break for it with several other civilians from the side walk.

New Yorkers were pre-conditioned to run from super battles.

They’d seen their fair share at this point.

The female soldier shook her head to clear it just as a hand latched around her neck and pinned her back against the metal tank.

She coughed and kicked out, pressing both of her feet against the male’s chest and pushing him away from her, his hand releasing her neck.

Bucky stumbled backwards, but quickly regained his footing and lunged at the girl. He latched his arms around her and threw her into the clearing made by fleeting cars and people. It was their own privet ring, with only a few spectators daring a glance from the security of the shop windows they hid in.

Bucky managed to pin the girl down, his gun pressed roughly under her chin. “Stay. Down.”

He growled, she froze but there wasn’t fear in her eyes. An asset didn’t fear death. Their one drive was to complete their mission. She looked up at him, looking into his blue eyes as if searching for something.

She must have found it, because she smirked and pushed his wrist upward, sending the gun tumbling across the hard asphalt. Cassandra bucked her hips, dislodging her legs from under him so she could flip to her side and press her boot to his stomach, kicking him up and back.

Bucky got to his feet quickly as Cassandra remained in a crouch, like a lioness ready to pounce.

But she didn’t pounce. In a rapid movement she picked up a manhole cover beside her and in a flawless impression of Captain America, threw it in Bucky’s direction.

Bucky ducked just before the heavy projectile could take his head off.

He stood up and took a step forward towards the girl, when a metallic groan echoed behind him. He turned his head to see the manhole snuggly buried in the surface of the tank behind him. He dove out of the way as the disk fell from the indent and sprayed gasoline over the street.

“I’ve had it with your meddling.” Cassandra hissed, taking a step forward as the gas flow trickled to a stop. “It’s over soldier.” She murmured, picking up the gun from the ground. “You didn’t even have it cocked.” She cocked the gun, after checking it for bullets and smiled. “Being an Avenger has made you soft.”

Lifting the gun, she aimed it at the soldier, who was still crouched after narrowly escaping a gas shower.

Blue eyes darted to the ground and then back up at Cassandra as he took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Doll.”

If she was confused, she didn’t show it. She didn’t care what he was apologizing for. She aimed the gun at the man’s head, her finger teasing the trigger—when Bucky suddenly dug his metal fingers into the surface of the asphalt and dragged them over it, sparks flying in every direction from the friction.

A stray spark bowed upward, landing in the puddle of gasoline beside him.

The liquid erupted into flames, following the path it made upon the stained ground like a snake, curving and weaving in the direction of the woman.

Doe eyes widened as the fire started towards her, and she quickly took a step back as the flame slithered behind her and grew in height. She dropped her gun turning on her heels to escape the fire, only to have her escape rout cut off.

When the realization dawned on her that she sat in the center of a ring of fire, she froze and fell to her knees, holding her head and squeezing her eyes shut.

Breath flew from her lips in rapid succession, her eyes snapping back open in a panic as a consciousness filled them.

Paralyzed in fear—a scream ripped through the air.

“BUCKY!”

The trembling girl didn’t have to wait long for rescue. Bucky jumped into the circle and crouched down, scooping her up and quickly removing her from harms way. He carried her bridal style far from the fire. He set her down on the sidewalk behind a car so the flames were not in her view, his flesh hand reached up to caress her face, pushing a lock of long hair from her eyes. It’d grown quite a bit during her capture.

“I’ve got you, doll.” Bucky murmured, his other hand coming up to join the other and cup Cassandra’s face, gently guiding her head back so he could look at her.

Specifically, her eyes. Though they were wild and full of fear—there was confusion and recognition there. “Are you with me, doll?”

The super soldier female looked at the blue-eyed man in front of him, blinking a few times as if she was trying to bring him into focus, she then looked around in an attempt to interpret her surroundings.

Cassandra looked back at Bucky, tears welling up in her eyes—blinking them away and letting them drip down her face. “I hurt you…” She whispered hoarsely, her voice raising a panicked octave as she started to breath heavily. “I hurt so many p--!”

Bucky cupped her cheek, thumbing the tears away and pressing his fingertip to her trembling lips. “Shh shh shh.” He murmured, trying to coax her from a panic attack as he stroked her face. “We’ll talk about that later.”

He took a trembling breath of his own, resting his forehead against hers as his fingers curled softly into her hair to stroke her head and hold her to him.

Occasionally, whimpers left her lips, but he remained there, sharing breath, basking in her presence until he felt she was calm enough— collected in her new reality enough—for him to wrap his arms around her. He held her close, more for himself than for her, and released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when she lifted her arms and embraced him, holding herself tight to his strong form.

Cassandra pressed her face into Bucky’s shoulder, silent sobs shaking her form as he rubbed her back, soothing her. “I’ve got you.” He assured her, not moving. “I’ve got you,” He turned his head to kiss her temple, his arm whirling as he held her tighter—as if someone would snatch her away at any moment. “and I’m not letting you go.”

The sound of sirens was the only thing that could get him to move at that moment.

Bucky tilted his head back to look at the girl, searching her eyes to be sure that he had his precious treasure back, and wasn’t being fooled. Each time the fire crackled not far from them, she flinched and tried to bring herself closer to Bucky—this satisfied his worry.

Standing, he took the girls hand and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go home.” He murmured, the red and blue lights reflecting off his eyes as the police cars parked to check on civilians and see what had happened. A fire truck was not far behind to take care of the blaze.

Bucky didn’t feel like sticking around to explain, he also wasn’t about to let the law take his doll after just getting her back. The distant sound of a motorcycle echoed in his super human ears—Steve was on his way, which meant Tony was as well. “We’ll let Steve and Tony do damage control.”

The previously brainwashed girl blinked and looked around, her eyes occasionally meeting those of panicked civilians who remained hiding in the stores. Her heart sank. “Did I—?”

Bucky quickly interrupted her, “We’ll talk about it later.” He murmured, an air of finality in his tone. He was worried about several things. He worried if he told her everything that had happened, it would cause her more damage, he was also worried if he told her some of the things she’d done—that she’d turn herself over to the police.

And Bucky wasn’t above becoming a fugitive again just to get her out of jail.

Steve pulled onto the scene, scanning it for Bucky as he dismounted his motorcycle. When he spotted his friend, his eyes darted to Cassandra before he looked back to Bucky expectantly. As though having a silent conversation, Bucky nodded, and Steve gave a tight smile before approaching.

“Hey Cassandra.” He murmured, as casually as possible. The girl smiled weakly in response before lowering her gaze to the floor, ashamed.

Steve wanted to comfort her, but he was also aware of the urgency involved in getting her back to the compound.

“Take my bike and get her home.” Steve said softly considering he’d seen the two bikes near totaled in the street. Perhaps they were salvageable, but that was another issue for another day.

Bucky gave a hard nod and with his arm around Cassandra, protectively as well as possessively, made his way to Steve’s bike, placing her on the back and speeding back in the direction of the compound. Steve would have to find a way to get the girl out of trouble, because Bucky wasn’t going to let anyone take her again. She’d be lucky if he ever let her out of the compound, let alone his sight.

Trembling, the traumatized girl wrapped her arms around Bucky from behind in a grip that probably would have cracked a normal human’s ribs.

One of Bucky’s hands came down to cup one of the girl’s shaking hands on his stomach. “It’s okay, doll. We’re going home.”

[endeavorsreward]

Excerpt (Bk. I, Ch. 2)

1996 OV / 1233 ZA

Month of Scorpio

Ramza Beoulve, age sixteen, was leaning against a column in the meeting hall of the Royal Military Akademy at Gariland, watching his class gossip like scullery maids.

“Another wain was struck last night on its way to Eagrose.”

“The Corpse Brigade again?”

Ramza sighed and looked down at his feet. They should not even be gathered there. Drills had been interrupted by an immediate summons, and already some three score of them were assembled here, pulling each other's hair and tugging on breeches, whispering furtive theories when answers would only come in but minutes.

They were all between fifteen and twenty, two-thirds men, and largely noble. The Royal Akademy was the most respected training school in Ivalice, where the scions of western nobility were trained in chivalry and the ways of combat. Squires all, knights apprentice, after years of boarded living, and still children all as well, as they showed at the slightest disruption in routine. His brothers would be disappointed, and so Ramza attempted his best to look stately and prepared.

An outside observer might note his features, at least, did not betray him: blond hair pulled back neatly in a tail to reveal his noble brow and chin, showing even now through the last remnants of babyfat; he was lean and androgynous, and his eyes were kind, but his posture rigid and controlled like an animal's—or, indeed, like that of a knight of the Northern Sky. He had but a single, errant lock of hair out of place, one he'd never been able to tame for long.

The young man on his haunches beside him, however, felt no similar compunction to present. Delita Heiral was mending a glove with needle and thread, watching the clucking hens with interest. It was in principle the responsibility of each squire to care for their own kit; though Ramza hadn't the skill with a needle that Delita had, and he often did the sewing for them both. Delita's eyes bore an intense stare that Ramza knew well—he'd already made his conclusions, and was now taking in what he heard, weighing in the opinions of others he respected less to test against his theories.

He'd had a great many years to know that look, because Ramza and Delita had grown up near as brothers might, within the same home.

“Ramza? What think you of all this?” A woman one year his junior with her long blonde hair tied back beneath the blue kerchief of a field al-chemist approached, head all but bowed, her hands playing with the heavy bag tied 'round her waist, which held her implements of healing. Her face was the bright red of tomato plants. “Could the Corpse Brigade really have reached Gallionne?”

He grunted. His elder brother Zalbaag, who led the Order of the Northern Sky, had muttered as much across the table at shared dinner last. Banditry was to be expected of Dorter and eastward into Lesalia, where peasants toiled harder and the palace could be seen above the horizon, but Gallionne, the emerald of Ivalice?

Another squire, this one male, approached also to her side, arms crossed. He was fit of body but fat in the face, like a baby riding on a man's shoulders. This one's name he could recall: Cuthbert Fawkes, a third son like himself, though Ramza suspected Cuthbert's blood at least was true. The young man actually gave Delita a sort of half-nod before addressing Ramza and the young chemist. “I hear that the deserts are less patrolled and more wild.” This one was wincing, and Ramza could see in him already the Fear, the quake that the knights of Gariland had attempted to drill out of one and all.

Ramza sighed. Most of the incidents of the past six months were believed to be the work of a company of felons and former sellswords known as the Corpse Brigade.  It was oft said the only good brigand was a dead brigand, and the Order of the Northern Sky would like naught more than to see the Brigade made corpses for true. But as yet, it was all the knighthood could do to keep the outlaws in check.

“I do wonder where all this leads.” He looked to Delita. “What do you make of this?”

Delita hesitated, looking at the other two students, as though they'd silence him. But when he saw they merely awaited his opinion, He took the needle from his teeth and licked his lips. Delita was not an unattractive boy, but he had none of Ramza's strong countenance; his eyes were slightly sunken and his skin not nearly so fair. He was already at sixteen a man of little sleep and too many thoughts. And unlike many at Gariland, his hands were callused from work. “I'm not sure. I have my guesses, but...”

Ramza frowned. “I'm listening.”

“I think Duke Larg is coming to Gariland.”

Their liege lord? “Duke Larg? Why?”

Delita shook his head. “Not just the duke. The Marquis Elmdore de Limberry, too.”

The other two squires were now looking at them both with open mouths, and Ramza rubbed at his eye. He'd known Delita long enough to assume he was correct, but he couldn't imagine how the man had come to this knowledge. “That's the first I've heard of it. This has not the sound of a state visit.” Limberry was the literal other side of Ivalice, at the border with Zelmonia, and the Marquis was well known as a figure that was... larger than life, as they say. Cuthbert looked to the girl, as if she could corroborate any of this, but she just kept looking at Ramza, as though it had been his supposition in the first place. He was not altogether comfortable with the awe she was directing at him.

Delita, on the other hand, was now looking at something else, some collection of boys on the other side of the crowd. “All of Ivalice is in turmoil. The Order's supposed to be keeping things under control, but the fact is, they number too few.”

This he knew, had even just been thinking, but the way Delita said it... “And they mean to bolster their numbers with us?”

The crowd parted and three boys approached their group. Ramza recognized the one at the vanguard, Gembert Rickeman, a second son whose grandfather had attended Denamda IV and had fallen out of favor from making a particularly vulgar bon mot at the new queen's expense within earshot of the wrong viscount. He was eyeing up Delita like a roast laid at the table's head. Delita stood, and Ramza turned to the other two squires. “Perhaps we may continue this later.”

The girl stepped back at his prompting, but Cuthbert was fixed in place and shuddering. A poor cadet, this one.

Delita turned his back on the looming Gembert and indicated the chemist, who was rejoining a group of friends to one corner. “I think you've an admirer.”

“I suspect I haven't.” Ramza sniffed, keeping one eye over Delita's shoulder and the sputtering Gembert. “Lord Brother may, however.”

“Ah, so you did know!” Delita grinned. “I admit to being impressed. You never seem to know what's going on with anybody.”

“I... wait, what?” He looked away from Gembert, back to the girl. “Who was that?”

“Her name is... hm...” Delita made a vague motion with his hand, as though pulling the name from the aether. “Dorothea Ingram! That was what it was. She was but knee-high, I think, when our Zalbaag helped end the Siege of Limberry—speaking of the devils—and I believe he made quite an impression on her! Indeed, I hear he may well have personally...” Cuthbert twitched, and Delita sidestepped just as a punch Gembert was throwing at the back of his head was about to connect. Ramza crossed his arms as the oaf hurtled forward fist-first at his own face. Gembert squeaked and tried to correct before dishonoring his entire family, falling onto his arse in front of his entire Akademy class to uproarious laughter.

As Gembert's two henchmen picked him up from the floor, Ramza gave Delita a wry look. “A cruel jape.”

Delita shrugged and grinned. “I trusted in your martial prowess, ere it did connect.”

Gembert, for his part, had not yet had enough, however. He leaned in close and snarled in Delita's face. “My shame at nearly striking a son of House Beoulve is nothing compared to the shame of Gariland, for letting standards fall so low to admit a stablehand as candidate for knighthood.”

Ramza grabbed Gembert's shoulder and jerked it towards him. “Delita is of House Beoulve, Rickeman, or are you to tell us that the word of my father is false?”

Cuthbert made a sound like merp and went cross-eyed.

Gembert shrugged off Ramza's grip. “Perhaps it's true, then, what they say, in that masters in time resemble their pets, Ramza. As your half-common blood beats faster through your heart by the day.”

A few people gasped. Dorothea, who was not so far from the confrontation—and indeed had returned closer as it had grown heated—was about to lunge in herself to confront the boor when Cuthbert suddenly found himself, taking her gently by the arms and rotating her away. Maybe there was yet hope for him.

Ramza, though, found his fists tightening. He could easily outmatch Gembert in swordplay, and there were near sixty witnesses to the offense. But then, rescue came from an unlikely source.

“Really, Gembert, how droll.” A tall man a few years Ramza's senior, unaccountably pretty, tracing a finger down his own cheek, appeared from nowhere at all, humming to himself. “How much further can you embarrass yourself? I'd say before your peers, but you and I both know that you haven't had peers in these halls in at least a decade or more, hm?”

Ramza cast a glance at Delita, who looked sick. They'd been saved by Osric Wineburg.

***

As the story went:

The Wineburgs were a high noble family of Lesalia through much of the Fifty Years War, with Osric's own grandfather serving with distinction, most notably in the Battle of Warjilis, when Ordallian ships had rounded Cape Ripoli and discharged invaders in the dead of night with a mind to occupying the church seat in Lionel.

They were, of many generations back, from Romandan stock, but had been loyal Ivalicians for so long that it had been of no concern until Osric's father, who had a barony in Grogh Heights, had been of a mind to entreat the Romandans to unseat Ondoria III in hopes of elevating his own station, and had passed messages covert to very distant cousins across the Rhana Strait. But Osric's mother had been loyal to the crown, and had done the unthinkable, cutting the man's throat in bed. By all rights, they had together doomed their house, and she had thrown herself at Ondoria's feet and begged mercy only for her infant son. Ondoria, who had been healthier then, had dismissed Osric's mother from the court immediately; he'd then mumbled offhand to the attendant Dukes Larg and Goltanna that in truth, he'd taken the woman to bed himself a year or two previous, and that the child was likely his own. Rumor told that Queen Louveria, who had sat to his side, had rolled her eyes openly.

Not a man nor woman in Ivalice believed the king. But it had saved the Wineburg name. Osric's mother, who had slain her husband, was sent gently off to a nunnery to live out her days, and Osric was treated with the due respect of a royal bastard. He'd never be in line for succession, of course, but he had traded off the name of the king ever since. If the Beoulves were, in a sense, royalty of Ivalice in all but name, Osric Wineburg was the exact opposite. And similiarly inverse, Osric had all the attendant arrogance without the Beoulve deeds to back them.

Ramza hated him; Delita hated him more.

***

Osric clapped Ramza on the shoulder as Gembert stalked off to find some other lesser noble to sneer at; Ramza didn't look him in the eye.

“Men like Rickeman don't understand, Ramza. You must take pity on them.” He chuckled. “After all, Heiral here would understand better than anyone—a chocobo you ride into battle, you can't help but view fondly. And they, too, shall serve, until they're put out to pasture.” Before Ramza could offer a retort, however, a knight at the hall's entrance clapped his sword against his shield.

“Form up!”

And so the cadets of Gariland gathered into even parallel lines, standing at attention, as their instructor entered and took the podium at the room's head. Master Bordam Darlavon took in the sight of the assembled students and nodded. The whole class breathed in...

“There comes in every man's time a moment, a call to be answered...”

...And everyone let that air go out at the same time. Ramza's shoulders slumped. Delita's head sagged. He could see Cuthbert's face collapse. Someone even let out a moan.

Master Darlavon was not known, to put it mildly, for being concise.

“...as, indeed, so, with great alacrity, our fathers stood upon the...”

He had served in the war, yes—commissioned as aide-de-camp for a single tour of duty, he had seen little combat. He was perhaps well versed in matters historickal and theoretickal but was not what one might call a leader of men.

“...as even peace might try a soul, when weighed against the ambition of...”

Ramza turned his head as much as might be not considered disrespectful of his instructor's attention, and found Dorothea, who was staring right at him. He snapped his gaze forward again with a wince.

“...bravery instead of the heart, each of we sons of Ivalice...”

If Duke Larg and the Marquis were in Gallionne, they were likely meeting with Ramza's eldest brother Dycedarg, who was the Duke's closest friend and advisor. They were moving history as if a lever, with the Beoulve name as a great fulcrum. Ramza, meanwhile, was here. What was he yet doing to honor his father's will?

“...bonds of fire and blood forged today will serve you in statesmanhood...”

He looked again to Delita, who was brother enough as well. When Delita and his sister's parents had died, his father Barbaneth had taken them into his fold without a second thought. Their origin hadn't mattered to him, and it had never mattered to Ramza, either. Men like Gembert Rickeman merely struck where they thought their betters were weakest, that was all.

“...to remember these times as the greatest you'll ever have...”

And so on and again and again and so on, for a quarter-hour or more, until even Darlavon was starting to nod off at the dais, and someone at the hall's entrance cleared his throat.

“Hm?” Darlavon blinked, then seemed to realize that this had been an urgent summons in some epoch past. “Your full attention to a knight of the realm with full honors, Ser Folcurt Reeda Lynde.”

A man in armor with gold plate and filigree walked up the aisle between the cadets. Ramrod straight in posture, gleaming in refracted sunlight, with the strong set jawline of a most chivalric tradition. This was Lord Brother Zalbaag's most trusted and celebrated lieutenant. He gave Ramza the slightest of curt nods as he passed, and Ramza felt the eyes of five dozen cadets upon him.

Ser Folcurt very tenderly extricated Master Darlavon from his death-grip upon the podium, and leaned in to address the flock.

“The Order of the Northern Sky has an assignment for its knights apprentice.” A half-breath for the import to sink in, and then, before they could begin to react: “As I'm sure you're already aware, the number of brigands roaming Gallionne is on the rise. Among them, the Corpse Brigade... a seditious lot with a grudge against the Crown. Rogues such as they must be dealt with. The Order has been commanded to undertake an operation to eliminate the Brigade—an operation of a grand scale.” He held up his hand. “We will not be acting alone. The Order will be joined by, among others, His Excellency Duke Larg's royal guard, stationed at Eagrose. This will leave Eagrose Castle undermanned. Your task will be to proceed there, and support us from the rear by bolstering its defenses.”

There was the softest murmur as the cadets began to take in the responsibility of protecting their Liege Lord and the people of Eagrose Castle. Delita looked back towards him, and Ramza's lips set. Yes, Delita, you were right, you are always right... A knight came jogging up to the podium, a junior, with one hand on the pommel of her sword, and Ser Folcurt stepped down to listen to her whisper. He responded with a few quiet words, and she dashed right back out. He looked to the crowd.

“The time to take up arms is upon you, young apprentices!” He slapped his gauntleted hand once against the podium, out of emphasis rather than emotion. “I've just received word that a band of thieves routed by our knights flees here to Gariland, seeking refuge. We will move to stop them, and finish the task of our brothers. You, young apprentices, will accompany us. This is but a squall before the storm of battle. Prepare yourselves at once! Dismissed!”

Wait, battle here?

The cadets began to scatter. Some moved with purpose; others with panic. Someone bowled Cuthbert Fawkes over in a dash for the door, and Ramza had to catch him before he spilled out, got trampled in the rush. Delita came up to them both, and he looked stunned. There would be fighting in the streets of Gariland, and it would happen that day.

“I...” Cuthbert croaked out, but then stopped. Ramza nodded. It was fine to feel it, the Fear—Ramza felt it, Delita felt it—but there need be no words, for they'd serve nothing.

Knights stationed outside were shouting out assignments and postings, forming companies on the spot of green cadets. Ramza was about to join them, when a shadow fell over them and Ser Folcurt was there.

“Ramza Beoulve.”

“Ser Folcurt.” He bowed slightly, but Folcurt waved it off.

“Ser Zalbaag expects great things to come of you.” They all walked towards the door together. “I'm personally stationing you at the cadet vanguard. Choose your men and position yourselves in the east side of town, the merchant's quarter. Do you know where in that area is best?”

Ramza nodded slowly. “Down the way from Darbinian's Smithy, the streets funnel and then split where the river becomes a small canal; we can winnow them there.” He glanced to Delita for confirmation, who nodded—his thoughts exactly. Good.

Ser Folcurt actually smiled. “Good man. Get your unit out there; you have a few hours before they reach the city.” He headed towards the other knights. “Good luck. May we all live another day.”

Cuthbert grabbed his own face and started exhaling rapidly. “I don't know if I'm ready.”

Ramza nodded, took the man's arm. “I can swear to keep you safe, or you can find a group farther from the vanguard, it's your choice.” They had not been given formal companies yet, nobody had been promoted to squire-command. This was Ser Folcurt making a rapid judgment call. He wasn't concerned, so Ramza tried not to be, either. They weren't herding a stampede, this was a band of thieves being run to ground. Likely the knight had thought this practical training. He looked to Delita. “How do you fare?”

“I find it peculiar.” Delita was rubbing his chin. “The summons was all-class and urgent, but no mages in training were in attendance.”

“Oh... that's simple enough.” Cuthbert rubbed at his arm, from where Ramza had held him. “They're too difficult to rouse. Meditations and the like. Before they announced the thieves, they likely intended to inform them as their sessions finished.”

“But that means,” Delita said slowly, “the mages are not yet assigned to companies.”

He frowned. “You don't know any mages.

“Indeed I do not,” Delita allowed, “But we know of one.”

Ramza groaned. “Tell me, Delita, you do not mean who I think.”

[janetng77]

I had a chronic hospital-acquired UTI that I picked up during my first hospital stay, five years before I died.  It was the worst kind – a super infection that spreads from patient to patient by hitching a ride on the hands of nurses.  Let me tell you how it works.

Nurses always wear gloves when inserting and removing patient catheters, and they change gloves between patients.  That is comforting to know, right?  But I wonder how many nurses actually wash their hands with soap and water before they reach for a pair of gloves, and after tossing them in the trash?  

Think about this.  If a nurse does not wash his or her hands before slipping on a fresh pair of gloves, any hand bacteria transfers to the outside of the gloves as they pull them from the box.  And what part of the gloves touches the patients?  The outside, of course.  

Or if the nurse does wash his or her hands before putting on the gloves, but then starts texting on a cell phone before inserting that catheter – well, germs living on the phone march right on in with the catheter, and take up residence.

Here’s something else to think about.  Hand sanitizing gels kill most, but not all, bacteria.  It does not kill the kind that lives in the intestines – such as e. Coli.  Only soap and water can destroy that.  Well, guess what: hospital-acquired antibiotic-resistant super infection UTIs  contain e. Coli bacteria.  

So if a nurse does not wash his or her hands with soap and water, prior to putting gloves on, voila! the infection gets passed to the next unsuspecting victim.

There’s more bad news, in addition to all that.  Once a patient acquires this type of infection, it is next to impossible to cure because it resists antibiotic kill power.  There is only one oral antibiotic I know of that can completely destroy the bacteria: Nitrofurantoin (Macrobid).  But if you’ve got reduced kidney function, as I did, it can kill you, along with the infection.  So yes, my final UTI was destroyed, alright, but so was I.

There is an IV antibiotic that can effectively cure this type of UTI, in a much safer manner for those with kidney disease – Meropenem.  The problem is that Medicare will not pay for the length of stay necessary for complete administration.  So . . . the hospitalist generally starts you on the antibiotic IV wonder drug, then sends you home in a couple of days (sometimes same day) with an oral antibiotic to finish the course.

But the oral antibiotic does not destroy the infection remnants, at least that was true 100% of the time in my case.  Interestingly, they never sent me home with Macrobid. It was usually some other type that was not even labeled for antibiotic-resistant UTIs.  Maybe Macrobid is too strong to use in conjunction with the powerful IV antibiotic.  I’m not really sure.  But the point is – the UTI is usually not fully treated, stays alive in trace amounts, and eventually flares up again.  

I’ve been through this scenario more times than I can count. In fact, each and every time I was hospitalized for broken bones, illness, or otherwise, I tested positive for a UTI.  The hospital got in the habit of routinely checking me, as a precaution. 

I was in and out of the hospital and different rehabs for post-hospital therapy more times than most.  Hospital staff recognized me upon arrival, if that tells you anything.  My admissions were for repeated falls resulting from medication effects, hospital-acquired Cellulitis flareups, and a couple of times because I was simply acting crazy from UTI infections that hadn’t been adequately treated in the past.

Every single one of my hospital admissions was directly or indirectly related to medications given me by doctors, and flareups of super infections acquired from the hospital.  They referred to me as a frequent flyer – yet they were the reason I kept coming back.  How’s that for irony. 

One month before I died, the memory care facility I lived at transported me to the emergency room for evaluation and treatment because I was developing significant mental and disruptive behavioral symptoms they had not seen in me before.  They didn’t know if my dementia had suddenly taken a turn for the worst, or not; but were quick to get me in the hands of medical professionals who could evaluate me.

The facility called Janet to let her know they were transporting me, and Janet left work to meet me at the hospital.  

This is how she found me:

They discovered a raging UTI – which had flared up numerous times in the past, but this was the worst case of it.  

They started me on Meropenem, a very powerful IV-administered antibiotic used for serious antibiotic-resistant UTI infections.

Within two days, the antibiotic started to eradicate the infection, and I was getting back to my usual self.  The following videos were filmed two days after having been started on the antibiotic.

In the second video below, Janet asked me to make a video for my other daughter, Cathy.  I was trying to tell her about a dream I’d had the night before (during a near death experience I had as a result of being accidentally overdosed on sedation by the hospital).  In addition to that, Janet was amazed for how much I was suddenly communicating – because prior to this, I wasn’t talking much at all.

The difference between the “UTI Me” and me with my usual dementia is significant, don’t you think?

I wanted to share this experience with you to illustrate that what sometimes appears as “worsening dementia” is not even dementia – but rather a UTI that can quickly reverse itself if appropriate treatment is given.  

UTIs were frequently mistaken for worsening dementia in my case by various rehab facilities, and even by the hospital on a couple of prior occasions.  As I result, I was given heavy sedation and antipsychotic drugs by mistake, rather than checking for, and treating, the real culprit. UTI.  

I was given occasional doses of Haldol, Resperidol, or Seroquel (antipsychotic drugs) at various times until Janet had it documented in my files that I was never to be given antipsychotic drugs.  These drugs only served to make things worse for me.  And sadly, many people with UTIs are mistakenly given these drugs when a UTI goes undiagnosed.  

It is very common for UTI symptoms in the elderly to be limited to mental, emotional, or disruptive behavior signs.  Symptoms experienced in younger people, such as fever, burning sensation, or physical discomfort do not always manifest in elderly patients.  

A UTI can also masquerade as dementia in persons who don’t even have dementia.  In fact, that was happening to me.  I was getting “temporary dementia” or “pseudo dementia” due to UTIs, off and on for a few years before my “real dementia” began.  My actual dementia did not truly begin until maybe a year before my death – which is about the time I began to think my plush toy Kitty Cat was real.  That is not to say that people didn’t assume I had dementia when I did not – because they often did.  Yet it always seemed to disappear with treatment of the underlying UTI.  That said, I did eventually develop dementia, as you likely notice in the “post-antibiotic” treatment videos above.

If you take away only one thing from this post, let it be to think “UTI,” first, when there is a quick, significant, and unexplainable change in mental, emotional, or behavioral state.  It is not always worsening dementia.  It is not always dementia at all.  It does not have to be permanent.  Have it checked out before jumping to incorrect conclusions.

Things are not always as they appear.

Things Are Not Always As They Appear. If It Looks Like Dementia, It Might Be A Urinary Tract Infection. I had a chronic hospital-acquired UTI that I picked up during my first hospital stay, five years before I died. 

[mychemicalrant]

What To Do

I’ve been writing a lot. It’s been helping.

For the last month pretty much the only thing I’ve done is write giant ass posts for this blog that no one reads. I’m glad no one reads it because it gives me the chance to explore these ideas out loud without getting pummeled by discourse and infighting.

Right now, I’m not quite sure what to do. I haven’t contributed much to any of my major projects. I’ve spent the last week embroiled with one of the worst emetophobia/health anxiety flare ups I’ve had since high school, complete with numbness, disassociation, and feeling disintegrated with my environment. It’s like I can’t settle back into my routines. Like everything has been disrupted.

But even though I’m starting to come down from that and come back into my body a little, I’m still stuck with one major question: what do I do now?

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty good planner (for myself anyway) and internally well organized. But there are times when I have no idea what to do first and so I end up doing nothing. There are things I have been neglecting to do for years because my brain completely freezes up about how to go about the process. It’s like I feel like I don’t have enough information to make even the first step. I’m not sure I would call this “executive dysfunction” on my own. I would need a professional to talk this out with, because in other ways I’ve always been pretty together, or so I thought. But all the same, it’s like I’m paralyzed by the choices?

I once heard a catatonic schizophrenic person describe what was happening as they stood frozen with their hand palm up to the sky: there was a battle of Good and Evil playing out on their hand, and they feared that any slight movement would give Evil the advantage. That has become a metaphor for every time in my life when I feel completely paralyzed by small decisions. I can order a drink or food item at a new restaurant, but it takes me awhile to make a decision because there are so many factors to consider. I don’t just consider the food and what I want (and if I want more than one thing, uh oh). I consider systems within systems within systems. Sometimes I consider whether such a choice would be gastronomically redundant (while then allowing myself to subsist on samefoods for most of my diet), or too many calories/sodium/whatever, or whether the taste balance would blah blah or what my general opportunity level for getting that food would be.

Like, if it’s a sushi place and I want to get unagi don, I feel bogged down by the fact that I also love sushi rolls and don’t get to eat them very often. So now my choice is, do I get the unagi don because that is what I want? Or do I get a sushi roll because these opportunities are rare and what if I never get to eat this again? What if what if what if? It really does feel like if I move, I’ll give “evil” the advantage, even with small decisions. Every decision is like this big web of potential and each “wrong” decision could have this big ripple effect.

Is this autism related or just plain ol’ OCD/anxiety? I don’t know, but the obsession is driving me crazy.

Admittedly, I am a little scared about taking the first step regarding diagnosis. I have resisted going to therapists for a long time out of fear that they would tell me I’m just a worthless adult for not being able to drive or hold a job, that the only “cure” is just to do these things and suck it up because that’s what adults have to do. If they are just going to tell me that I’m a piece of shit, why bother going at all? I already know that and I don’t have to pay 40 dollars a week (sliding income scale) to hear that.

But if the actual situation is that I am facing untreated cognitive impairment that affects my ability to cope, AND that my adult coping mechanisms are no longer working and I have “exceeded my limited capacities” in life, I would at that point qualify for an assessment and possibly a diagnosis. A diagnosis is sought when impairment becomes noticeable, and for over a decade I’ve been hiding my impairment out of shame. I’ve hidden behind “I’m just getting on my feet” and “I’m still figuring things out” and “I’m not sure what I really want to do yet.” All the while spending 14+ hours in bed and having no spoons to do much else.

But you know where I’m at right now. I’m caught between the “not diagnosed but strongly suspecting I’m on the spectrum and exploring this as a valid possibility” and “you don’t REALLY have autism if you’re functioning enough to go through life being undiagnosed/your autism isn’t severe enough to matter/you’re taking away space and voices from people with REAL autism with your fake self-diagnosis” echo chamber.

Like, I get why people are suspicious of self-diagnoses, but at the same time, real people with autism exist without diagnoses and this doesn’t mean they don’t have it. It doesn’t even mean they are coping or not impaired! It just means they’ve fallen through the cracks and have turned to other mechanisms like secondary mental illness, substance abuse, or addictions they can’t explain because they are not getting treatment and support. That’s where I found myself before I started looking into this possibility.

I’ve been reading through a bit of the discourse lately on why people with “real autism” and parents of “real autistic kids” feel that self-diagnosed adults are a bunch of bullshit fakers bringing harm to the community, which is tough to read even if not unexpected. Gate-keeping was one of the first unpleasant realities I discovered in MBTI communities, and it was tempting for one to get a Certified Assessment to “prove” that one was whatever type they were claiming to be, even though the Official Certified Assessment still relied on self reporting and was still subject to being, you know, entirely subjective and not at all scientific? So finding it in the autism community is not at all surprising.

I’m sick of gate-keeping. It’s why I more or less moved away from MBTI and to the Enneagram which I see less defensiveness in. No one in the Enneagram community is supposed to be fighting over an ego label and who “deserves” to get to define their personality as a 4 or an 8. That’s absurd.

Anyway. I’ve been caught between this whirlpool of “do I think I have enough of a case to pursue diagnosis?” and “do I have the time/resources/money/energy to pursue a diagnosis?” and “am I severe enough for it to even matter?”

I want to do this. It’s not a question. I have a credit card so I can put myself thousands of dollars in debt to get this assessment. Should I do that? Probably fucking not, but if this will help me figure out what the hell is going on with my job issues, it might be worth it?

But is it? Should I just suck it up, you guys? Should I just deal with this shit on my own? I feel like I am disintegrating more and more. I drink now more than I used to to “cope” with difficult feelings I can’t process. Going to grocery stores is hard for me because the lighting and temperature and people bother me. My OCD is crushing me. I can barely touch anything now for fear of contamination. I have cut off relationships cold turkey (and warm turkey) just to avoid telling people how bad things are for me. I certainly haven’t had any luck in finding another job. 

Not to be recursive here, but my Special Interest of autism has been keeping me afloat. Many of my Special Interests have always cycled around psychology (abnormal psych, personality theories) such that I have strongly considered buying a copy of the DSM-IV (now 5) to read for fun. Obsessing and archive diving this topic has been the one thing helping me navigate some of the stuff I’ve been dealing with in life. But the obsessive drive always comes with a Call to Action: should I seek a diagnosis?

How? How do I do this??

[newstfionline]

Getting Older, Sleeping Less

By Jane E. Brody, NY Times, Jan. 16, 2017

Insomnia is like a thief in the night, robbing millions--especially those older than 60--of much-needed restorative sleep. As the king laments in Shakespeare’s “Henry IV, Part 2”: O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frightened thee. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

The causes of insomnia are many, and they increase in number and severity as people age. Yet the problem is often overlooked during routine checkups, which not only diminishes the quality of an older person’s life but may also cause or aggravate physical and emotional disorders, including symptoms of cognitive loss.

Most everyone experiences episodic insomnia, a night during which the body seems to have forgotten how to sleep a requisite number of hours, if at all. As distressing as that may seem at the time, it pales in comparison to the effects on people for whom insomnia--difficulty falling asleep, staying asleep or awakening much too early--is a nightly affair.

A survey done in 1995 by researchers at the National Institute on Aging among more than 9,000 people aged 65 and older living in three communities revealed that 28 percent had problems falling asleep and 42 percent reported difficulty with both falling asleep and staying asleep. The numbers affected are likely to be much larger now that millions spend their pre-sleep hours looking at electronic screens that can disrupt the body’s biological rhythms.

Insomnia, Dr. Alon Y. Avidan says, “is a symptom, not a diagnosis” that can be a clue to an underlying and often treatable health problem and, when it persists, should be taken seriously. Dr. Avidan is director of the sleep clinic at the University of California, Los Angeles, David Geffen School of Medicine.

So-called transient insomnia that lasts less than a month may result from a temporary problem at work or an acute illness; short-term insomnia lasting one to six months may stem from a personal financial crisis or loss of a loved one. Several months of insomnia are distressing enough, but when insomnia becomes chronic, lasting six months or longer, it can wreak serious physical, emotional and social havoc.

In addition to excessive daytime sleepiness, which can be dangerous in and of itself, Dr. Avidan reports that chronic insomnia “may result in disturbed intellect, impaired cognition, confusion, psychomotor retardation, or increased risk for injury.” Understandably, it is often accompanied by depression either as a cause or result of persistent insomnia. Untreated insomnia also increases the risk of falls and fractures, a study of nursing home residents showed.

There are two types of insomnia. One, called primary insomnia, results from a problem that occurs only or mainly during sleep, like obstructive sleep apnea, restless leg syndrome (which afflicts 15 to 20 percent of older adults), periodic limb movements or a tendency to act out one’s dreams physically, which can be an early warning sign of Parkinson’s disease.

The other, more common type of insomnia is secondary to an underlying medical or psychiatric problem; the side effects of medications; behavioral factors like ill-timed exposure to caffeine, alcohol or nicotine or daytime naps; or environmental disturbances like jet lag or excessive noise or light--especially the blue light from an electronic device--in the bedroom.

Among the many medical conditions that can cause insomnia are heart failure, gastroesophageal reflux (GERD), lung disease, arthritis, Alzheimer’s disease and incontinence. Treating the underlying condition, if possible, often relieves the insomnia.

Regardless of the reason for insomnia, it can become a learned response when people anticipate having difficulty falling asleep or returning to sleep after middle-of-the-night awakenings. They may spend hours lying awake in bed worrying about being unable to sleep, and the anxiety itself impairs their ability to sleep.

The more one frets about a sleep problem, the worse it can get. When on occasion I awaken in the wee hours of the morning and can’t get back to sleep, I usually get up and do something useful, which takes the curse off my insomnia. If I’m worried about forgetting something important, I write it on a pad kept next to the bed, taking care not to turn on a light. (Bright light in the middle of the night can reset your biological clock; if you get up to use the bathroom, use a night light near the floor.)

Nonmedical causes of insomnia are often successfully treated by practicing “good sleep hygiene,” a concept developed by the late Peter J. Hauri, a sleep specialist at the Mayo Clinic. That means limiting naps to less than 30 minutes a day, preferably early in the afternoon; avoiding stimulants and sedatives; avoiding heavy meals and minimizing liquids within two to three hours of bedtime; getting moderate exercise daily, preferably in the morning or early afternoon; maximizing exposure to bright light during the day and minimizing it at night; creating comfortable sleep conditions; and going to bed only when you feel sleepy.

If you still can’t fall asleep within about 20 minutes in bed, experts recommend leaving the bedroom and doing something relaxing, like reading a book (one printed on paper, not on a brightly lit screen), and returning to bed when you feel sleepy.

Many people mistakenly resort to alcohol as a sleep aid. While it may help people fall asleep initially, it produces fragmented sleep and interferes with REM sleep, Dr. Avidan and others report.

There may also be some useful dietary aids, like bananas, cherries, kiwis, oatmeal, milk and chamomile tea, though evidence for these is also primarily anecdotal. One friend told me she solved a longstanding sleep problem by eating a banana two hours before bedtime.